


All These Little Things

by Schattenmalerin



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-14 03:50:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenmalerin/pseuds/Schattenmalerin
Summary: Collection of oneshots centered on Justin Foley/Alex Standall. Read notes for more information.





	1. 1. Seeing the other wearing your clothes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a translation of my own work in wrote in german for a project on fanfiktion.de.  
> The task is to take a pairing of your choice and write something to the following situations:
> 
> -Seeing the other wearing your clothes  
> -Holding hands  
> -Having their hair washed by the other  
> -Falling asleep on the other one's lap  
> -Cuddling in a blanket fort  
> -Sharing a bed  
> -Head scratches  
> -Sharing a dessert  
> -Playing with the other one's hair  
> -Shoulder rubs  
> -Reading a book together  
> -Caring for eacht other while one is ill  
> -Patching up a wound  
> -Taking a bath together  
> -Accidentally falling asleep together  
> -Forehead or cheek kisses  
> -Adjusting the other one's jewelry/neck tie etc  
> -Back scratches  
> -Seeing the other cry about something  
> -Slow dancing  
> -Massaging each other
> 
>  
> 
> So this is going to be a more or less connected collection of oneshots to all the situations above with Justin/Alex.  
> I want to keep it lighthearted (or at least I don't intend to write about the darker topics of the TV series), but if something will change, I will add proper warnings of course.  
> The oneshots settle somewhere in their first year and is more focused around the secret relationship of Justin and Alex (and sometimes Justin's friends) than Hannah.

**1\. Seeing the other wearing your clothes**

Summary:  
_Justin wants Alex to visit his next basketball match.  
Alex is willing to do so, but only for a strange reward, Justin will not quite understand at first._

_**Justin's POV** _

"Tell me again, why the fuck I'm wearing this ugly shirt?"

I take a suspicious look at you through the mirror and pull reluctantly at the collar of the rose-colored shirt.

Not only that the color is abso-fucking-lutely the last color on earth I would wear voluntarily, the shirt is also too tight around my chest and at my shoulders. One quick movement with my arms and the shirt would rip. Great, so better to not move at all.

"Because I will visit the next basketball game in return, sitting on the tribune and screaming like a little lovestruck girl about how great you are", you respond with that typical ironic undertone in your voice.

Ignoring my glance you rather take a checking look at the shirt, that I find more and more ugly the longer I look at it. Grimacing at my reflection my only thought is how shitty I look in this shirt. Impossible, that you even considering me "attractive" in these piece of fabric. Another argument on the endless list of reasons, why this fucking shirt and I won't have a future.

"Right, I already forgot, I'm in a relationship with a manipulative blackmailer", I comment with the same ironic tone as you and adding while grinning teasingly: "Which means, that my choice of boyfriends is almost as bad as your choice in clothing."

I hope to tease you a little bit. If I have to stay here with this fucking ugly shirt on me - that you gave almost more attention to than me, I recognize with a dissatisfied grunt - then the least thing I can do is try to provoke that sweet pout you always show, when you're pissed about something.

Sadly I get disappointed; The only reaction to my remark is a low amused laugh way closer on my ear than I expected. I get goosebumps and curse you for the effortlessness, with which you do all those small little sweet things that fluster me again and again.  
Instead of giving me an answer you pull at my collar and fix it with an expert look. Slowly I get frustrated by the lack of reaction and attention from you. Impatiently I move my left feet up and down, while I throw you another gaze, this time by looking directly over my shoulder.

"I don't fucking get it, Standall." Though we are boyfriends we never stopped calling us on our last name on occassion. It is probably a part of our dynamic. "You could have blackmailed me to do anything you want and what is your fucking request of me? That I wear the by far most ugly one of your shirts and ... what for? To embarrass myself in front of you with this shitty thing of a shirt?"

"First: A deal is a deal, Foley, and right now you are not in the position to complain or question about the why", you reply in a nonchalant tone and finally meeting my own eyes with your blue ones. It is a playful look, almost teasing, but still with this adorable sparkle in your eyes, showing me each time once more why even wearing the most ugly shirt is worth all this. Why you are worth it all.

"Secondly: The _shirt_ isn't ugly." You take another look at the mirror, observing me from behind me. A casual shrug is all I get. "The shirt just looks ugly on _you_."

"Oh, really, Sherlock? Thanks for the fucking genius input, Standall. No way I would have managed to come to this conclusion myself, that the shirt looks shitty on me!"

I am not even as pissed at your remark as I am glad that I finally can take this fucking shirt off and get back to my grey sweater - that doesn't sit too tight on the shoulders and looks like I'm right out of the gay bar.  
I begin to undo the first button, but I'm stopped by your hand gripping my own and pulling mine away with determination. Almost reproachful you grinned at me.

"What is it now, Standall?", I ask wondering, before I change my mind and return the grin with an own flirty one. "Well, maybe _you_ want to help me with this?" I point mischiviously towards the button border and give you a little wink. "I definitely wouldn't mind at all ..."

Again you laugh in amusement and shake your head. "Not a part of the deal, sorry."

Before I can find an answer to maybe persuade you otherwise, you already grab in your opened wardrobe and pull out another piece of clothing. A grey cardigan is thrusted into my hand by you.

"Put that on, Foley."

I throw you a faked warning glare for the commanding tone you used, but follow your order, although slightly disapproving.

A few seconds later the thing I already knew is confirmed: The cardigan is in no way a improvement to the rose-coloured shirt and though it is now mostly covered by the cardigan and therefore out of sight for other people, the slim cut didn't do anything to show the good parts of my build. While you fit into those clothes perfectly with your almost filigree build, slender shoulders and those bleach blonde hair - and even manage to look so fucking attractive in it - I'm just looking like a total nerd who stole the clothes out of his sister's wardrobe. At best!

"If you even fucking think, that I'm going out with this shit on me, you're out of your damn mind", I comment with a warning, right after I turned around to you on your wish. No boy in the world and no pout would make me do this. Not even you.

"Wasn't my plan", you say quietly, as if to calm me down with your soft voice, while you examine your complete work. Whatever made you choose those clothes for me to wear, even you have to admit, that you did a fucking bad job this time.

"You at least admitting, your _oh so fan-fucking-tastic_ fashion sense had abandoned you this time?"

I almost expect a witty counter or at least one of your ironic comments, but all you do is watching me in an throughly manner, with a soft smile playing on your lips. I am really wondering, what could probably make you so happy about seeing me in such ..."unflattering" clothes.

Suddenly you look up, the sweet smile still on your face. "It was never about you looking _oh so cool_ in these clothes."

"Then what was that all about?", I call out with an dumbstruck expression in my face. What the fuck?

You stop me with a wave of your hand. "You can change into your clothes again", you answer and if I wouldn't have been so busy with taking the cardigan and the shirt off as fast as possible, I surely would have noticed the slight shy blush on your cheeks. 

 

A deal's a deal and just as that you sit between all the other spectators on saturday evening and watch the events on the playing field. Of course you don't scream like a "little lovestruck girl" -as you called it -but your eyes always lay on me and you clap a little louder, when I'm the one who scores. After the won game I'm the one you gratulate first, with such a happy and proud smile, that I want to kiss you right there in the middle of the gym hall and in front of all the people. But I keep myself under control - our relationship is still a secret - till we are alone on the way back to your house and become one with the darkness.

And as it begin to rain out of nowhere and you, covered with only that ugly rose-colored shirt, shiver from the cold, I obviously pull my jersey jacket around your shoulders. You look at me with a concerned look and, after I assured you, that my grey sweater is much warmer than it looks like and that I don't need my jacket, you slip in my jacket and pull it close to your body, hugging yourself.

With an unnoticed glance I observed you closer. The jacket is clearly too large for your slender body and the sleeves are too long. As a result you look even skinnier and smaller than normally. No, the jacket definitely does not look good on you. But nonetheless a soft smile appears on my face by the look of you in my jersey jacket.

And suddenly I understand why you wanted so badly to see me in those terribly unfitting clothes of yours. For the same reasons, for which I can't take my eyes off of you for the whole way home and for which the smile never leaves my face along the way.

Because it is not about you looking good in these clothes, it is about the warm, happy feeling that rises in me when I see you wearing something that belongs to me.


	2. Holding Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:  
> Although Alex would rather spend the evening alone with Justin, he let himself be convinced to join a gambling evening at Bryces'  
> As the situation between him and Monty seem to escalate, it is Justin's task to support him - as inconspicuous as possible.

**_Alex's POV_ **

 

"Dude, just kill that fucker, Alex!"

I roll my eyes in annoyance, my fingers on the controller moving deft, although without much motivation.

"Left, dude, to your left! Fuck!" The controller is thrown on the couch beside me, as Monty dies in-game and darts an angry glance at me.

Although I eliminate the enemy at the corner of the building with an accurate sniper shot, my soldier follows Monty's character as a grenade is thrown right in front of me.  
I sigh and put my controller on the couch, too - though much more carefully than Monty.

"What the hell?!", Monty grumbles in his typically reproachful way. "How long you need to kill that fucking enemy? I could have planted the bomb, if you had killed him!"

I grit my teeth and try to stay calm. Monty is even more unbearable and demanding than usually when playing games. Once more I ask myself, what I'm doing here anyway.

"Thanks, dude. Now we have to wait forever in the lobby again", Monty nags further after he picked up the controller and pressed _Join Lobby_. Irritated I shake my head and also join the lobby - although reluctant - while he leans forward to grab his beer. There is no way around that, anyway. If Monty is bored and wants to play games, there is no room for protests.

Monty takes a long pull on his beer bottle and throws me a stern look. "Try harder next time, I don't want to lose another match, dude."

"In that case, how about you don't run ahead with the bomb to get yourself killed?", I reply after all, giving Monty a frustrated glance as well, before I face the screen in front of us again with a bored expression.  
Under Monty's and my player names were still no other ones.

"Wow, Alex, don't give me that crap, okay." Of course Monty would not take anything from me. It would have been too good to be true, if he would think about what he might have done wrong. "You fucked this round up by camping around in our base instead of killing the enemy in time."

"I play with a sniper, Mr. Know-it-all. How should I rush right through the area with a sniper?", I counter with an incomprehensible sideglance at Monty.  
"And just to get that straight: I didn't camp in the base. I just played in a slower pace. It's called tactical delay, just so you know", I inform him and grab my own beer bottle. The taste of warm beer spreads in my mouth and I grimace in disgust. I would have drunk rather a coke than beer in the first place, but it seems that at Bryce's "modest" mansion there is anything, except non-alcoholic drinks of course.

"Tactical delay my ass", exclaims Monty while tapping his food impatiently. Meanwhile two other players joined the lobby. "This is not one of your strategy games, moron, it's a shooter. You run over the map, search the enemies and shoot at them-"

"And get killed, because-"

"Because your buddy is camping and watching calmly how you get shot from all sides", Monty interrupts me with an angered look and I notice, how my own voice grows louder in return.

"Because you run ahead without securing any corners, genius!"

"Yeah, because it was your task to secure me! I'm the one with the bomb."

"That's what I'm saying!", I shout out unnerved and let my head fall down onto the backrest of the couch. How can one person be so stubborn?

"Woah, woah, woah. Easy there, guys", says Zach from behind us with a soothing tone. "We were gone for nothing more than a few minutes and you two are already at war with each other? What's up with you two?"

I turn my head toward Zach and see you standing right beside him. Right, you are the reason I endure the presence of Monty and hang at Bryce's in the evening - well and probably the friendship with Zach, by which I got to know you better.

"We lost, because Alex rather camped in our base than shooting at our enemies", announces Monty and I breathe heavily through gritted teeth.

"Exactly that's the reason." My voice is dripping with sarcasm, while I glance at Monty in harsh manner. "And not that you ran straight into the firing line of our enemies. _With_ the bomb, just to get that part clear."

Monty is about to reply, but Zach, showing a grin, is faster to raise his voice. "Okay guys, that literally sounds like a competition. What about a 1 vs 1, to sort your problems out, eh? I bet ten dollars on Monty."  
Zach spreads himself out between me and Monty on the couch, then throws an cautious look in my direction. "Sorry, Bro, but Monty is damn good at 1 vs 1."

Monty, visibly keen on Zachs suggestion, gives me a superior grin. He must have misinterpret my disinterested hesitation for uncertainty, because he talks big again. "What is it, Alex? Scared, your _tactical delay_ won't work and I will destroy you once and for all?"

I'm really not keen on another round with Monty's pretentious posturing, but I see no real way around that. The decision is made for me, for you intervene with that crooked, persuading grin which is so typical for you and pulls me in every time again. "Come on, Standall, you not gonna stand for that, do you?" Your eyes wander from me to Zach and you bet ten dollars on me.

I sigh. You gonna regret that later. I know, you doing this to encourage me, to convince me to have fun with _your_ friends, but "fun" is a multifaceted thing, on which we not always agree on and "friends" a term, with which we connect totally different traits.

"You going to lose, Monty", you announce and swing yourself over the couch in a swift movement to squeeze yourself between me and the armrest. Carelessly you put the jersey jacket - you took off because of the heat in here - between us.  
"Because Alex here had learned from the very best", as to underline your words you place your arms around me in what should look like a friendly gesture.  
I know, this is you way to be closer to me when we are not alone. Though you try by all availabe means to keep our relationship a secret, you can rarely manage to keep your fingers to yourself when I'm around. By now you master these _friendly_ gestures perfectly, it is almost frustrating.

"If you are talking about yourself by saying "the very best" then I pretty much already won", responds Monty with a confident laugh.

You counter his arrogance with your middle finger and before I can say anything we are on the map Monty chose and shoot at each other - or Monty is shooting at me, because against your saying, I play considerably worse than Monty. If it is due to the listlessness, the constantly mocking exclamations of Monty which goad me into running directly in front of his gun or the fact, that I'm better while playing in a team - _good_ team members provided, that is - I can't say for sure.

Or maybe the reason is your proximity, the way you ruffle through my hair, when I manage kill Monty after all. Your touch is more brisk and shorter - not soft and intimate as I'm accustomed to from all the times I wake up with your hand carressing my hair and a smile on your face - to maintain the friendly facade between us.  
It frustrates me.

"You run out of chances, Alex", Zach comments on my sixth death of my character in a row, before adressing Justin in a mischievous manner. "Thanks for the ten dollars."

I sigh, discontent with the overall situation, what you notice.

"You better win, Standall! Otherwise you're paying me back those ten dollars!", you say with a sassy grin and you probably just make fun to lighten my mood, but the situation gets more and more uncomfortable for me.

Sitting next to you, pretending you're nothing more than a friend for me while enduring your subtle flirty attitude, coupled with the fact, that I have to share the same room with Monty and his ego instead of spending the evening with you alone ... It can really pull my mood down.

"I ain't paying you shit, Foley!", I respond in an attempt to return your teasing, but the tenseness is clearly noticable in my voice and I stare at the screen again just to not see your reaction.

Recognizing my unusual roughness you pull your arms away from my shoulders and I almost regret my words, regret to have pushed you away from me. But - to my surprise - you don't intent to move away at all. Instead you lean closer towards me, squeezing your left shoulder in between the backrest of the couch and me, so that now I lean half against the couch and half against your upper body. The sofa is small, so that all of us squeeze together and our proximity doesn't look too suspicious.

I die once more and give the victory to Monty. Frustrated I lower the controller and run my other hand over my face.

"Who's the king now, hm?", Monty yells in exaggerated manner. "Come, Alex, I wanna hear it from you. Who's the king? Who's better?"

I'm real close to throw the controller right into his face. How can one person be so arrogant?  
My anger must be noticable because suddenly I feel your hand close to my own on the couch, careful and unobstrusive. With your thumb you stroke softly over the back of my hand, a gentle and calming gesture, causing a tingling sensation.  
With effort I manage to suppress my surprised gasp.

"Don't boast about winning one match against Alex. It doesn't make you the fucking king, Monty", you intervene with a challenging look and lean forward in Monty's direction and therefore closer to me.  
Your hand slips automatically under mine to pull my hand under your jacket - still laying between us both on the couch - so that nobody notice how you interlace our fingers, in a naturalness I only sense when we are alone.

I'm well aware of how reluctant you are to give me those little confessions in public, in the presence of your friends, always anxious to raise suspicion.  
I know that just like you know, how much I miss those little confessions, how much I need those in certain situations, _especially_ in the presence of your friends.  
We meet somewhere in the middle, under your jersey jacket and I manage to throw you a short thankful glance without anyone noticing.  
You don't return my look, still staring in Monty's direction with stubbornness, but you gently squeeze my hand, showing me that you understand.

"Oh, now you have to defend your little protégé, Justin? Better you give him a hug, before he starts to cry", mocks Monty again with a laugh. "And you, Alex? You better go back to those little strategy games of yours unless you want to embarrass yourself again by losing against me."

Annoyed I shake my head in return. It's all a game for Monty, just fun, a stage to get the maximum entertainment for himself out of every situation: Whether by cat-calling some girls in school, pushing Tyler Down against the next locker or dissing me with taunting, allegedly playful comments until his ego is so big, it could easily fill out the whole school gym.

"At least Alex has the tactical skill and the required patience for strategy games", you now reply with an emphatic tone and I notice how you automatically shift even closer to me and straighten yourself, almost in a protective gesture while staring at Monty. "You should see his macromanagement! He wouldn't need more than five minutes to erase you from the field. And even more his micromanagement!"

I can't suppress an amused grin due to your way of throwing those words around, so untypical for you. You probably overheard them in one of the strategy game sessions against me and must have kept them in mind somehow. No question which one of us was the superiour winner and which one was the one to give up after ten minutes in frustration and the demand to rather play CoD.

I don't need to look in your face to understand that you have not a single clue, what micro- and macromanagement really means. Still, your keen try to protect me is cute.

This time I'm the one to squeeze your hand for a moment, a silent thank-you which results in you grabbing my hand firmer with your own, changing our loose touch into one of determination as if you want to make me understand that you have my back, that you won't leave me alone. It unleashes a warm, fuzzy feeling inside me.

"Whatever", Monty murmurs visibly uninterested. "Strategy games are for losers, who are lacking of quick reflexes and accuracy to be even decent in shooter games!"

I can see you starting to reply, but I'm the first one to speak, my tone changing to a more conciliating one. I'm finished listening to Monty's irrelevant comments and I know he will not stop until he heard me say it. "It's okay, Monty. You won, gratulation. You're better, I'm giving up."

Even that mocking-arrogant grin Monty is giving me can not destroy the warm, pleasent feeling of our fingers interlaced. I'm even capable of returning his grin with my own content one. Monty may have won the game, but I won something far more precious.

With my free hand I hand the controller over to Zach, who accepts the challenge and chooses a map to " _show Monty who the real king is_ ".  
A short moment I fear that you could pull your hand back - now, that I calmed down again - but you make no such indications; instead you give me a little smile before turning your attention back on the screen and cheer on Zach from time to time.

I remain silent beside you, my own little smile on my lips, while I count all those small circles you draw with your thumb on the back of my hand.

It is the small things that suffuse me with happiness. And you are full of those small things.

 

 

 


End file.
